Dr Dilantha Gunawardana is a molecular biologist, who graduated from the University of Melbourne. He moonlights as a poet. Dilantha wrote his first poem at the ripe age of 32 and now has more than 1700 poems on his blog. His poems have been accepted/published in Forage, Kitaab, Eastlit, American Journal of Poetry and Ravens Perch, among others. He was also awarded the prize for "The emerging writer of the year - 2016" in the Godage National Literary Awards, Sri Lanka for his first collection of poems (Kite Dreams – A Sarasavi Publication), while being shortlisted for the poetry prize. Dilantha is a dual citizen of Sri Lanka and Australia, and shares his experiences from two different cultures. He blogs at - https://meandererworld. wordpress.com/

Tag: Homeless

We are an invisible race
To the governments, the passers-by
Sometimes even to the charities.
We are not beggars but still we pass our time on steps
The kind that has two or three,
And gives us a concrete plank
To keep ourselves horizontal and asleep.
We see invitations everywhere
On the arch where the highway stretches,
Or the cathedral that is ever open,
And yet we are never really there..
Many of us, once were on cushions, stretched on coir
Seated on stools, climbing tree houses
And yet today is a just faint glimpse of yesteryear.
When we are just estranged from a front door, a doorbell,
A doormat, just about anything
That has door written on it, to enter
And hold at hello, a place near your heart
Called one’s home.

We are the most common reason
That trolleys are stolen from super markets
We are the hobos and the ragamuffins
We are the dirty folk, and still
We have our own little virtues;
The moon is our 100W bulb on the porch
The stars are the fairy lights in the veranda,
There are no walls to asphyxiate us, nor are we
Packed in claustrophobia, we are
Just a family of deplorables, who will always be free of
The municipal councils, electricity bills
Water rates, and we are never
In danger of overstaying one’s welcome.

We are not to be branded as squatters
Or freeloaders, just the temporarily displaced,
Those who fall through cracks in the system
With no welfare checks or day wages,
Always looking out of an invisible window
Whose curtain closes at night,
And open to the spectacular epiphany,
Of Aurora’s colors bathing dawn.
Yet you’re in the same place as yesterday
A little stiff in neck and back,
A feeling that something good could happen
To you and you’re only at mercy
Of the lottery seller and the meteorologist
And you have scratched more than 100
Lottery tickets this year. The only
Math you know are the dollar you spend on a lottery ticket.
And the price of a Mcdonalds burger,
Which is true to the words “Happy Meal”
We only have small pockets and smaller tills,
I guess we are good to be McHappy,
Living on that preservative called hope.